


Intercostal Space

by brinnanza



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Disordered Eating, Eating Disorders, Gen, Id Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: BJ doesn’t answer, just slides his tray over in front of Hawkeye. “Eat,” he says, handing over his fork.Hawkeye grimaces at the puddle of maybe-eggs, the soggy strip of possibly-bacon. “No thanks,” he says, sliding the tray back over. He wiggles his coffee cup at BJ, giving him a disarming grin. “I’ll stick with what I can identify.”





	Intercostal Space

**Author's Note:**

> For Birda, who's fault this is.
> 
> Thanks to PrairieDawn for giving this a look over and thanks to the Swamp for being an endless font of encouragement and cheerleading, even (especially) for bad decisions. The MASH fandom: Did you mean _shamelessly projecting onto Hawkeye Pierce_

The only things on Hawkeye’s tray are a cup of coffee and a piece of toast, and now that he’s looking at it, he’s not even sure about the toast. He can feel BJ’s eyes on him as he tears it into smaller and smaller pieces between sips of coffee, but he also can’t quite bring himself to eat any of it even though it’s the least objectionable option by far. And it’s not like he thinks he can actually survive on coffee and gin or that he doesn’t need to eat _something_ at some point, but the thought of solid anything in his mouth makes his stomach churn unpleasantly.

BJ sets his fork down, finished with his breakfast, so Hawkeye pushes up from the table, but BJ catches his arm and pulls him back down. “Can’t stand to be apart for even a moment, huh Beej?” Hawkeye teases.

BJ doesn’t answer, just slides his tray over in front of Hawkeye. “Eat,” he says, handing over his fork.

Hawkeye grimaces at the puddle of maybe-eggs, the soggy strip of possibly-bacon. “No thanks,” he says, sliding the tray back over. He wiggles his coffee cup at BJ, giving him a disarming grin. “I’ll stick with what I can identify.”

BJ gives him a look, uncomfortably pointed, but Hawkeye forces himself to maintain the eye contact. “You’re not gonna eat anything?” BJ says.

Hawkeye shrugs. “I’m not hungry.” The acid burn in Hawkeye’s stomach that crawls up his esophagus would beg to differ, but Hawkeye just knocks back another swig of coffee. It gives him an escape from BJ’s gimlet stare at least, however brief.

“You weren’t hungry at dinner last night either,” BJ points out, “and before that, we were in OR.”

“So I’ll catch up at lunch,” Hawkeye says, standing up from the table. “C’mon, we’ve got rounds.” 

“Now why don’t I believe that?”

“I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, Beej, but yesterday’s tiptoe through the tibias wasn’t just a bad dream.”

BJ frowns. “I’m serious, Hawkeye.”

“Nice to meet you, serious; I see you’ve heard of me.” Hawkeye winks at him and then steps over the bench, leaving his tray and coffee cup on the table. He heads for Post-Op, puts a little speed in his step so he can trade BJ’s unnecessary concern for him with concern for his patients, but BJ jogs after him and catches his arm. He pulls Hawkeye to a stop in the middle of the compound, brows furrowed with that patented Hunnicutt pity. “Gonna need that to practice medicine,” Hawkeye says, jostling his arm in BJ’s grip.

“You also need food to do that,” BJ says. “Or did you skip that class in medical school?”

“It’s possible; was that a Monday, 8 a.m. lecture?”

“Damn it, Hawkeye,” BJ snaps, and his free hand curls into a fist. Hawkeye flinches reflexively, jerking back from him before he can stifle the urge. BJ releases him immediately and takes a step back, something like horror dawning on his face. “I’m just - god, I’m just _worried_ about you. This place is hard enough on what the army feeds us, and you’re too good a doctor to do this to yourself. So what gives?”

“Nothing!” Hawkeye says, putting his hands up. BJ gives him a look, disbelief etched in the arch of his brow. He’s not going to let him brush this off, Hawkeye can see, will probably just get even more tenacious if he yells, but he gives a last ditch attempt anyway. “It’s nothing, Beej, come on.” 

No such luck. “I’m not going anywhere until you _talk to me_ ,” BJ says. Hawkeye’s not looking for an argument, but the tense set of BJ’s jaw tells him he might have found one anyway.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright.” It’s not exactly a conversation he wants to have in the middle of the compound (or at all), so he tugs BJ between two tents where they’re slightly less likely to be overheard by prying non-coms or majors’ ears. “Look, it’s not that big of a deal.”

BJ purses his lips in strenuous disagreement, but all he says is, “Are you sick?”

“Only in the head.” The joke goes over about as well as three-day-old breaded liver. “I’m not sick.”

“So what, you’re just overly concerned about your girlish figure? I can already count your ribs, Hawkeye; this place has taken more weight than you can stand to lose.” BJ’s lips curl up into a snarl, and Hawkeye knows it’s not him BJ’s mad at, not really, but he keeps a wary eye out for incoming projectiles. “Is this some slow-paced attempt to kill yourself?”

“Jesus, BJ, _no_ ,” Hawkeye says. “How can you even - there are enough things over here trying to kill me without me adding to the fucking list.” And he knows it’s not an unreasonable conclusion to draw - Hawkeye’s self-destructive tendencies have been on full display since BJ met him. It’s not like Hawkeye’s never considered it, never _wanted_ it, if only to escape this lice-ridden, blood-soaked hell. He’s pretty sure he’s not going to make it out of Korea with all his marbles, but he’d like to make it out with his _life_.

“So what then?” BJ demands. “Because this isn’t the first time or the second or the third.” He crosses his arms over his chest, and Hawkeye winces. BJ’s been paying closer attention than he’d realized. “Well?”

Hawkeye shrugs, partly to cover the way his shoulders hitch up unconsciously. “You can climb down from your white horse, Beej; you’ve got enough patients to worry about already.” BJ opens his mouth, probably to argue that Hawkeye is one of them (a reasonable argument if an erroneous one; Hawkeye is his own doctor), and Hawkeye puts his hands up. “It’s not a self harm thing,” he says, and BJ raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth either. It’s just… something that happens sometimes, when OR drags on and on, when nobody dies, but most of them won’t really live either. When he hasn’t got the time or the gin or the cash to drink himself comfortably numb. It’s the next best thing, like the nebulous cotton wool feeling between his ears turns the volume down, tunes out six amputations, four nephrectomies, three head wounds that won’t survive the trip to Seoul, and a ward full of future cannon fodder. 

BJ’s watching him, waiting for some explanation and halfway to calling for Sidney Freedman. (He can if he wants; it won’t be news to Sidney.) Hawkeye’s tempted to turn tail, hide in Post-Op under the guise of work so BJ has to worry about people who are actually sick and injured, but BJ has the uncanny ability to see the best in people and the worst in people simultaneously. Running away from this conversation now will only make it worse later.

“You don’t need to babysit me,” Hawkeye says. He keeps his tone light, but it’s not a joke, not really. “So I skip a few meals from time to time. Considering how the army feeds us, that’s probably better for my health anyway. Can you just drop it?” 

BJ shakes his head, gearing up for another pass at “How can you do this to yourself” or maybe “I will fix this by force if necessary”, and Hawkeye barely holds back an eye roll. “It’s not a disorder, BJ, it’s a bad habit.” It’s too much booze or not enough sleep, the arms of a soft nurse when he’s stuck inside his own head. “I’ve got a handle on it, I promise.” It’s not the truth, but it’s not exactly a lie either. “Can I go check on my patients now or would you like to take my vitals? Kiss my forehead, see if I’ve got a fever?”

BJ huffs out a breath, and the creases in his forehead smooth. He’s not mollified, not by a long shot, but he no longer looks like he wants to strap Hawkeye down to a cot and force feed him surplus beans from World War 2. (Not that Hawkeye would necessarily be opposed to the first part.) “Okay,” BJ says finally. “If you say it’s fine, then it’s fine.” 

“And it’s fine,” Hawkeye says. He holds out an elbow for BJ to take. “Shall we?”

BJ rolls his eyes, but he takes Hawkeye’s arm. “Lay on, MacDuff,” and they stroll towards Post-Op.


End file.
